It's All in Your Head
by Dark-Fantasy-Fan
Summary: John is in a mental institution, Sherlock is his new psychologist, well that's what he wants him to think. Once beginning as an investigation, Sherlock's meeting with John Watson became the start of an obsession - infatuation-. His original case forgotten, John becomes his new case and the two learn that both have been through hell...


**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock otherwise JohnLock would be canon**

_**Author Note: Hello Readers! Just a quick fore note, I apologize if this bothers you. This is my first story for a long time and I would be grateful for any advice and or beta readers. If I include anything possibly triggering or confronting I will warn you before the chapter as I value my readers an awful lot. There will eventually be smut as warning so look out for that. Enjoy Chapter 1 :)**_

A twitch dusted over his face hearing the jangle of keys in a lock, nostrils flaring at the overpowering scent of perfume. A cold chill from the outside signalled a door had been opened.

"John… Watson?" the man's head jerked up hearing his name, brown irises looking towards the two nurses standing in the doorway of the completely white room. John was currently seated cross-legged amidst the blinding white of everything in this bloody room. What sort of sadist thinks all this will help?

Two arms lifted him by the elbows and he made no struggle as they lead him out of the room. John limped between the women, gaze now directed to the tiled floor as if it were crumbling beneath him. The walk was over in no time, John now facing a closed door. One nurse opened it, ushered him inside handing him his walking stick and then rushing away with the other nurse.

It had become routine. John would limp into the room and seat himself in the therapy chair. The therapist Ella Thompson would arrive shortly after himself, her heels clopping irritably loud as she entered. John laced his fingers together, twiddling his thumbs absentmindedly.

A twinge of annoyance shot through him as the door squeaked on its hinges and clicked softly shut. Odd… No irritating heels. A feeling of unfamiliarity overcame the man, his body becoming rigid where he sat. Near silent footsteps padded towards him, not Ella. Before he had time to study the 'intruder', John was immobilised by a man's voice.

"I can assure you Mr Watson that your sodding excuse for a therapist has been… Taken care of. Sacked, fired, removed from this facility. Terrible she was, an insult to the profession. You may think you're hiding your emotion from me, but I indeed caught the left corner of your lips twitch. This information pleases you I see".

There was brief silence, giving John the opportunity to snap out of his astonished trance and study the unfamiliar man.

Dark curls of hair framed a face of porcelain skin. High cheek bones cut along either side of his face leading out to pointed ears. Dark under eye circles showed lack of sleep, his calculating blue eyes studied John actively. He had an almost elf-like grace about him, tall, thin and with little emotion displayed. John was awestruck.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man had sat across from John, arms folded neatly over his chest. Obviously John had not noticed his movements during his observation.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Afghanistan… How did you- I just met you. I don't know a thing about you… Well, I suppose you read my file…" John trailed off seeing the dark haired man roll his eyes condescendingly.

"I never read my clients files, I figure everything out myself," he knocked on the top of his head in a form of mockery before launching into speech. "I'm aware you're an army doctor and you've been debilitated from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic more likely because he recently walked out on his wife and I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic… Quite correctly I'm afraid. The name's Sherlock Holmes".

John was gaping like a fish, barely able to form letters into words and words into sentences.

"Nice to meet you Mr Holmes," was all he managed to spill out.

"Sherlock, please. Now onto business," Sherlock undid the navy blue scarf around his neck and discarded it onto the arm of his chair. He stood up and walked around the room, sifting through paper work and anything he found lying around.

John watched him in astonishment – still barely able to get his brain to function. The taller man skittered around the room, studying everything quickly, with practiced concentration. He then made his way back over to John and circled him twice then plonked himself down cross legged in front of the therapy chair. He stared intently, seemingly lost in thought.

Feeling uncomfortable in front of the eyes boring into him, John coughed and shifted his gaze slightly, tapping his foot in attempt to ease his discomfort. Sherlock noted this and gave a smirk.

"I don't believe you figured all that out yourself". Sherlock's smirk widened at John's doubt.

"It's quite simple Mr Watson. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your questioning skills say doctor. So army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That shows that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action-".

"You mentioned my brother before," John cut in, curiosity eating him up.

"Indeed, an alcoholic".

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" at this comment Sherlock sighed, as though it should be obvious.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. That phone sitting on the cabinet, yours I believe, but with another name," Sherlock rose as if attached to strings, plucking the phone from its place and handing it to John, pointing to the inscription on the back.

"Harry Watson. The phone is too modern to be a father's and far too precious to be any other relatives shown by the woman's name – Clara – followed by three kisses. The power connection," he turned the phone around, "tiny little scruff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them".

John sucked in a lungful of air, puffing his cheeks out. He closed his eyes shaking his head in complete disbelief.

"That… was amazing," the ex-doctor had no other words. Sherlock looked puzzled for a split second before masking his expression.

"You think so?"

Quick enough to make his head spin John nodded. "Of course it was, it was extraordinary. _Quite_ extraordinary".

"Not what people normally say," the two men locked eyes.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock scoffed knocking a laugh out of John – his own laughter joining.

The dusty blonde man held the phone out to Sherlock who shook his head. John explained that he wasn't permitted possession of his phone in the institute resulting in an eye roll and the insistence to hold on to it anyway.

"In case things get bad, I need to know. My number is in your contact list already, do not fret. Fling a text if you need me," the taller man straightened his back, shifting his coat roughly upon his shoulders. "I will check up on you every second day, or daily if required".

"Wait…You're leaving already? I mean, Miss Thompson would stay for ages…"

"Dull, she stayed to dry you of information. Something of which I have no intention of doing myself. As my client your privacy is to be respected and I shall only attempt intervene on your request".

John's mouth pressed into a firm line, unsure of what to say. This man was strange, he was completely different to others, he was… incredible. The strangest part is that John had only just met Sherlock and he wanted to spill everything to him. But he wouldn't, he would restrain himself, it seemed this therapist needn't be told much anyway.

"You miss it don't you?"

"Hmm, sorry. Miss what?" a conspicuous cough followed.

"The war, the adrenaline of it all," Sherlock's expression was calculating once more, searching the others face for any change.

"Oh god yes," John clasped a hand over his mouth realizing how awful that sounded.

"There's no reason to hide it. I too crave a similar adrenaline. The chase, rather addictive wouldn't you agree?" he reached into an inner pocket of his coat. "I'd like you to solve this case for me. It's an old one, solved many a year ago," John instinctively raised his hand to catch the envelope thrown at him. He turned the package over in his hand, studying with bemused curiosity.

"You mean… like a crime case?" Sherlock nodded curtly in response. "Why on earth do you have-,"

"You tell me Mr Watson," he winked and fastened his scarf around his neck. "Come".

John stood quickly, gasping in pain when landing on his bad leg. Grabbing for his walking stick, he shuffled behind Sherlock like a child would to their parent. The door was opened and they both stepped out in uncomfortable silence. The short man thought back on their session, unable to grasp how easily he was read with barely saying a word about himself.

"Sherlock," he uttered. A sound of approval was heard, he continued. "You were right you know".

"Hmm," Sherlock stopped just outside the doorway, allowing John to collide with his back. "About what?" John's eyebrows furrowed when he received no apology, but brushed the thought away.

"The fact that I'm pleased Miss Thompson is, uh, gone".

"I had no doubts, she told you everything you already knew. It was to be expected you would dislike her," Sherlock muttered something about incompetence under his breath, turning around to face John. "I will return tomorrow to check on you. I am much looking forward to witness your progress on the case also," his mouth formed an awkward half smile.

With nothing more to say Sherlock took his leave with a downward tip of his head. The nurses lead John away.


End file.
